Chapter 8
EIGHT
HARLEY
With the bucket in my hand, I walk around the outfield, collecting all the balls I hit out here.
The lights shine against the grass, and aside from a few cars driving by, it’s so serene here tonight.
I love the peace the field brings me, even though it’s also one of the most stressful places I know.
Somehow, it brings both things to my life—chaos and serenity.
I talked to my dad a little bit before I came here tonight, but he was too weak to say much. Everything inside of me is saying to go home, but it’s not an option, and when my dad first got sick, he was adamant that he did not want me to leave my team just to sit next to him in bed.
But still, it feels wrong. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t even be here today at NEU.
“Figured I’d find you here,” a voice calls faintly, but it’s so far away that I can hardly hear it.
Looking toward the dugout, I frown when Cane walks over the pitcher’s mound, heading straight toward me.
Grabbing the last ball, I head toward him with my bucket just as he makes it past second base.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, holding onto the bucket of balls. “You know, some may call this stalking.”
“Yeah, well, so what if they do?” he teases, holding his hand out, his fingers grabbing the bucket’s handle.
“What are you doing?” I pull back. “I can carry my own bucket of balls, thanks.”
“Never said you couldn’t,” he tosses back, keeping his fingers around it. “But I want to lug it in for you. Trust me, it won’t make me think you’re any less of a badass. You can hit better than most guys I know, and I’ve seen clips of you taking some pretty bad hits behind the plate.”
“Wow, you’re definitely a stalker,” I mutter, eventually giving up and letting him take the bucket.
Slowly, we both walk toward home plate, and after he sets the bucket down, he suddenly starts fidgeting nervously with his hands.
“Uh, so … I don’t really know how to say something, so I’m just going to blurt it out.
” He looks down before his eyes lift to mine.
“The other day, I heard you talking on the phone. I wasn’t eavesdropping.
” He cringes. “Well, not purposely. I just … I came to clean this dugout first, and you were in it.”
Instantly, my cheeks heat, and my heart races. Tugging my batting gloves off, I narrow my eyes at him. “And what, you stayed and listened?”
He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his gray sweatpants. “Well, no. I don’t—kind of, I guess?” He frowns. “I know it sounds bad. But either way, I just wanted to check to see if you, you know, needed anything?”
I search his face, letting my eyes roam, as I try to figure out what the hell his intention is right now. I don’t know him. All I know is, he went out of his way, driving an hour and a half away, to ruin someone else’s dugout. That, and he’s a great pitcher.
Oh, and he’s hot. He apparently used to be the campus fuckboy but seems to have calmed down. Other than that, I know nothing.
“What exactly are you asking me, Hale?”
He rocks gently on his heels. “I guess I just wanted to check that you were able to get your medication, Catch. That’s all.”
Maybe it’s nice that he’s here, trying to help me. But the little girl inside of me, the one who’s had to claw her way tooth and nail every step of the way to get to this point in her softball career, is just irked that this man—this … very entitled man—wants to show up and be her Prince Charming.
Or maybe it irks me that he could be. Because I need help, and I can’t do it myself. And every single part of my being hates to admit that.
“I know you’re aware of who my stepdad is. And so—” He cringes. “God, this makes me feel like a fucking major douchebag to say, but … I have the means to help you.”
There’s no hiding how uncomfortable he feels, saying those last words, which somehow makes him seem more human to me than if he just threw around the fact that his family was loaded. Still, I hate this conversation with everything that I am.
In my mind, I know this would be my best shot to continue affording my medication and supplies. But still, I hate being a charity case for someone like Cane freaking Hale.
“I’m all set actually,” I finally say, backing away from him slowly.
“I know you’re trying to … what, right your wrongs and make everyone like you again?
But guess what. I’ve done it this far on my own.
I don’t need some man who has the world in the palm of his hand and no respect for other teams to step in and try to be my hero. ”
Turning away from him, I grab my shit quickly.
“Harley, wait,” he pleads, just as I start walking away.
I can feel my sugar getting low, and I rush to my car, where I know some Skittles are waiting for me, and I never look back at him.
Maybe he does have good intentions, or maybe he doesn’t. Either way, it doesn’t matter. My mom said she was going to talk to the insurance company and that everything would be fine.
I don’t need Cane Hale or his charity.
CANE
I walk into The Tower—the male athlete house—to find Hendrix sitting at the counter, playing on his phone and scowling, and Jameson and a few other guys who live with us playing video games.
“What’s good, Hunt?” I mutter before grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.
“Not a fucking thing,” he mumbles back, setting his phone down. “You?”
“About the same,” I say honestly, leaning against the counter.
Hendrix Hunt is a hockey player—a damn good one at that.
Seeing as my stepdad is the assistant coach, I’ve heard he has quite a reputation for fighting and getting into trouble.
Though since transferring here—aside from one fight, where he was defending a friend of mine, Isla Hardy—he seems to be a decent guy.
And from what I’ve heard, he’s also obsessed with her, but I don’t want to break it to him that her daddy will never let them be together. Dude is too overprotective for that.
“Does the baseball team have to be in that stupid charity auction?” he asks.
I’m just thankful that Hunt isn’t mentioning anything about the shitstorm I’ve been in on social media from the stupid fucking prank.
Everywhere I go lately, everyone seems to bring it up.
And not in the best way either. With Hendrix, I think he appreciates that I don’t bring up him getting kicked out of his prior college for fighting, so he’s repaying the favor by not asking me about this.
“Unfortunately,” I grumble, remembering the auction because with everything going on, I forgot.
“Damn Brody O’Brien and his huge-ass heart,” Hendrix says, hanging his head.
“I know. How dare he make money for his charity with our fine asses?” I grin. “With my luck, I’ll get bought by some old cougar or something.”
“Old cougars need love too, Hale!” Jameson suddenly calls from the couch, catching me off guard because I didn’t even know that fucker knew I was here. “Besides, maybe she’ll, like, bake you cookies or some shit.”
“Why the fuck would she pay for a date with him and then bake him cookies?” Hendrix tosses back.
“Because old ladies love to bake, dickwad!” Jameson yells. “And they’re good at it. I mean, fuck, if I could live to play hockey for ninety years, I’d probably get pretty good too. You know?”
“But your body would be decrepit, Einstein,” Hendrix deadpans.
I swear the pair of them forget I’m even sitting here.
They’re both on the hockey team though, so naturally, they’re closer than I am with either of them.
My best friend living in this house is probably Liam, Huck, or Ty—another teammate—and that’s likely because they’re all on the baseball team, so I know them better than I do some of the other guys living here.
“True. And my nuts would be saggy too,” Jameson calls back, and I can practically hear the shit-eating grin in his voice. “But if I were that old, playing ball, think of all the ass I’d get.”
“Yeah, old ass,” I say, chuckling and hitting Hendrix on the side.
The door opens, and Liam, Ty, and Huck walk in.
Right away, Liam’s and Huck’s expressions grow strained when they see me, though they all hold up their hand to wave.
We’ve had a practice and a scrimmage together since it all went down and seen each other at this house a few times, and still, it’s awkward as fuck.
They feel guilty—I know they do—but when they try to bring it up, I tell them to shut up about it.
“Fellas,” Hendrix drawls, “how was playing with balls today?”
“Har-har. So funny,” Liam says, rolling his eyes. “Don’t be jealous, Hunt.”
“Jealous? I have two balls I can fondle anytime I feel like it.” He winks. “And I can do it without wearing those tight-ass pants too.”
The hockey guys love to tease the basketball and baseball dudes, but it’s all in good fun. And besides, we make fun of them right back.
Next year, Cash will be a sophomore and will likely move into the house too. Though, sometimes, I think he likes living in a dorm because he’s the sort of guy who needs some quiet time. Here, unless you’re locked in your room, you won’t find that.
As the guys all talk, a few others emerge from their rooms—one basketball player and a football player—all joining in on the conversation, and I eventually sneak down to my room.
When I collapse on my bed, all I can think about is the look in Harley’s eyes when I offered to help her. She was pissed, but there was something else too. Maybe surprise? Or consideration? Whatever it was doesn’t really matter, and I know I should let it go.
I open the Instagram app, seeing hundreds of notifications from people commenting on old videos of mine—no doubt ripping me apart. Out of everything that’s happened the past week, losing the respect of so many people is what hurts me the most. I was a role model, and now people hate my guts.
Unable to bear reading one more negative comment, I quickly get out of my profile and find the catcher girl’s. Miss Harland Meadows herself. And after ten minutes of scrolling through her reels and posts, I realize quickly just how loved she is on social media.
As much as she doesn’t want to admit she could use help right now, she could.
But what she doesn’t realize is … I could use help too.
Help make people see that I’m not a bad guy.
Harley could help me out with that because if people thought she was my friend, they’d stop looking at me like I was the worst dude at this campus.
People love her. And with her help, maybe they’ll love me again too.
So, I need to convince the catcher to fake it that she’s my friend. Pretend or not, it may be the closest I’ll ever get to her actually liking me anyway. So, in my eyes… it’s still better than nothing.
Who am I kidding though? That’s not the real reason I want to make this deal. I just know she’s so proud that it’ll sound better to her if she thinks I’m getting something out of this arrangement too.
Besides, this means I’ll have a chance to get closer to her. Because if we’re friends—fake or not—she’ll have to spend time with me.